Mixed Martial Miyata
by chapa3
Summary: Following the conclusion of his fated match with Ippo, Miyata Ichiro finds himself faced with a family tragedy and a crossroads at his boxing career. Meanwhile, expatriate American MMA fighter Elijah Delacourt goads local Japanese boxers to challenge him and his teammates to a public MMA spar. And thus begins the story of Miyata-kun, the Little Prince of Counters & Catch Wrestling.


**AN:** I have to apologize for the lack of uploads. Between full-time work and studying for a few exams, I haven't had as much time, and that's in addition to a few month break I took earlier this year. I have been working on material for all my active stories, No God's and No Master's next chapter is...80% done. I'd say For All Debt's next chapter is half done. Fear and Loathing in Roanapur...I just wrote a few paragraphs.

This is the last serious multi-chapter fanfiction that I will write, and will focus on Miyata Ichiro of Hajime No Ippo's retirement from boxing and transition into an MMA fighter in the backdrop of the rapidly growing Japanese MMA scene of the early 2000s. I am a massive fan of MMA and have been wishing to write something like this for a very long time.

As always, enjoy.

* * *

Round 7 concluded, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins prevents me from realizing the agony of my shattered jaw…I cannot feel the bottom of my tongue. My ribs a dulling pain, a reminder of the body blows of Round 3. My vision is fine despite the cut across my forehead from our class of heads. My father dabs Vaseline across my forehead, shouting instructions that I feign to listen. All I can see is Ippo-kun on the far corner, as Kamogawa struggles with the blood seeping into his pupil's left eye.

February 11th, 2001. 28 years of age, the prime of my career. The…Unified Featherweight champion. The man to stop Ricardo Martinez. 32 wins, 3 losses, 1 draw. First the Canadian Gabriel Hayden, 6th ranked in the WBA, 7th in the WBC, parading with the Ring Championship that was stripped from Ricardo Martinez and won against Sendo Takeshi in a vacant title fight. 8th round KO. Won the Ring Featherweight Championship. Then the Ukrainian Anatoly Shevchenko, 2nd ranked. Unanimous decision win, 116-112 my worst of the three scores. Retained the title. Lastly, the title eliminator for Ricardo Martinez…the Mexican Alfredo Gonzalez. 9th round TKO medical stoppage. Retained the title, won the WBO Featherweight Championship. The unification bout was determined, my Ring and WBO title against Martinez's WBC and WBA titles.

10th round KO victory. The first man to ever knock down and knockout and defeat Ricardo Martinez. The nearly undisputed Featherweight Champion of the world. The Lightning God of Japan.

My first defense, a unification of my belts and the IBF title, held by England's 'Sheikh' Hassan Aziz, the man to end Alexander Zangiev's title run. 118-110, 117-111, 117-111. Undisputed Featherweight Champion.

He was 3rd ranked at the time and…and it seemed appropriate. No mandatory title defenses, no sanctioning red tape to stall us. Our fated match was set. February 11th, 2001. Miyata Ichiro vs. Makunouchi Ippo, in the Saitama Super Arena.

No Kamogawa, this will not do. I will not let this fight end with a medical stoppage. I've caused too much delay to let this end in such a way…stop that bleeding. As your former disciple, I beg of you…stop that bleeding.

I owe Ippo-kun this much. And far more.

Father retreats beyond the ropes. "Be strong," he speaks. Words I have followed all my life. Be strong.

' _Be strong.'_

"Seconds out," the referee declares in Japanese. Kamogawa turns to me, gazes, a strange pitiful frown. Hmph. Very well.

The gong sounds. I adopt the Detroit style stance and press forward, undeterred by my accumulated damage. Makunouchi advances as well, Peekaboo guard, slowly. My countering jabs and crosses have worked…little by little. He is rubbed down, as a lottery ticket revealing each digit that will bring fortune or failure. Only a little more, and we will see what Makunouchi's fortune reveals, what fate has bestowed us.

He weaves to the right slightly, a feint I do not purchase. Correct observation, he sways to the left, body blow, I step back, counter with a right cross, just barely grazes him…but it stops his movement. A chopping left hook, hits only glove. He dashes forward, I retreat in a circle, jab, jab, jab, his movements slow, the damage has accumulated severely, my fourth jab in the sequence brush against the top of his head.

He moves right, attempting to cut off my retreat. There is seldom a stiller target in this sport then a charging boar.

I strafe, circle, not giving Makunouchi the pleasure of cornering me, where his Dempsey Roll can actually create significant damage. He attempted it once in Round 3, and the sharp cut above his left eye has bothered his vision ever since.

I have done my best to resist targeting it, to remain in his field of vision. We have waited far too many years for this. I…I have broken far too many promises, I cannot accept such a victory. This was to be the answer to the boxing question that has perplexed our circle to this day…whose vision will lead Japanese boxing to its true heights? Miyata-san's, my father's, or Kamogawa's. We have waited far too long…this round, this very round, the round of the figure 8, this will answer that question.

Ippo pauses, strafing around the center of the ring, while I glance by the ropes. I push forward, enter my range, jab, jab, both blocked, no reaction provoked. I have lost track of who is winning this fight, and I'm certain Ippo-kun is of the same mindset. Jab, straight, both blocked, his guard is weakening. His consciousness hanging by the mere threads, it shall soon end. I shall finally fulfill my promise to you, Makunouchi.

His left shoulder moves, low or high, high, I duck under the hook, press my shoulders against his chest, and then bounce away from the reactionary right hook aimed for my battered ribs. I press my feet, arc my back slightly, and use my weight to direct a sharp cross counter that cleanly strikes the nose. Ippo-kun recoils, his eyes concussed, this has become the grueling fight we all expected it to.

It is still raining.

I lean forward, past my legs, to appear as if I am within Ippo-kun's range. He steps forward, his right hook the opening salvo of this final exchange. I jerk my body back and allow his fist to strike the air. He is open. It is time to end this.

I take a step forward, drive all the strength of my body, every muscle, into my right arm. Into my Jolt counter. Into the fulfillment of my promise.

' _Be strong.'_

It is still raining.

Ippo-kun…is crying.

His eyes…he is not concussed, his eyes…those same pitying eyes as Kamogawa's.

My Jolt counter is dodged, tears strike the blood stain canvas. The figure 8 motion begins. Wait…I step back, just enough to escape his range. He continues his motion, the Dempsey Roll. I lean forward, lift my guard. I will wait for my second chance in this desperate attack.

I have waited years for this. Sawamura may have solved the mystery years ago, but my lean forward motion, the perfect disguise. Makunouchi does not realize that his…his Dempsey Roll cannot touch me…unless I allow it to.

The hooks strike my guard…they are strong. _'Be strong.'_ I hold strong, allowing his fists to strike my guard. Almost…almost…now!

I jerk my body back, and repeat the process. Jolt counter, my timing is perfect, and my range is far enough to prevent even the Dempsey uppercut.

Makunouchi is crying.

I begin my body's rotation, his weaving halts, his body bends low, the Dempsey uppercut.

I jerk my arm before I could strike, out of his assured range. His uppercut will strike air, and a left hook will end this bout.

His right leg bends awkwardly…I have not seen this before. What is…the…his fist is coming closer. Toward my already shattered jaw…it's the Gazelle punch.

I smile. Congratulations Kamogawa.

* * *

The familiar sensation of anesthetic. I cannot feel my face against my blanket. The dull pain in my ribs lingers, and I only now noticed the sharp pain in my right foot that the hospital failed to dull. A high ankle sprain, I estimate. I hate this sensation, specifically the fear of biting through my tongue…I feel it against my upper mouth. I swallow saliva. Thirsty…my mouth is dry.

I open my eyes, a dull light. Father slumped by the chair at the other end of the room, asleep. A television set plays silently to the left of him…a boxing ring? But…they appear to be wrestling. Professional…no, mixed martial arts. An East Asian, I wager local, man just extended the arm of another East Asian, prompting the second East Asian to tap the canvas frantically. The first East Asian is celebrating, placing his hands on his forehead. Fingerless blue gloves.

I look to the left, my body cast restricting my movement, I wince. I hear a gasp, and as if I my left eye is obstructed, I twist to expand my peripheral vision. There…Makunouchi Ippo, sitting at the bed side. His left eye covered in bandaging and cotton balls, his forehead displaying stitches, his right eye and cheek still swollen. His mouth agape.

"Ip-po," I muster, mumble likely. He mutters "Miyata-kun…I…"

I speak "You...thank-you…for-not…hold-ing…back." His remaining eye may be half swollen, but I understand it quite well.

He still has not recovered from the incident. From…his fight before this. My…I feared he would retire soon. I…it was my last chance…to fulfill my promise. And even so…I feared he would…he would not…fight to his fullest. I am thankful to be proven wrong.

"Miyata…" he whispers. It's amusing. He just became the undisputed Featherweight boxing champion of the world, and I am the one smiling in relief. I reassure "I…I will…re-co-ver." Damn this injury, I can barely speak.

It is not a repeat of your last fight. That…that will never happen again. It…it was not your doing. Plenty of factors contributed, Randy Boy Junior drawing blood from his veins to make weight, the incompetent and possibly corrupt referee, Randy Boy's granite chin and incredible resilience. It was a recipe for disaster…Ricardo Martinez and Alfredo Gonzalez would have caused the same in your shoes.

It is difficult enough to speak single sentences…I cannot speak such thoughts without stumbling horrendously.

I speak "Ippo-kun…wa-ter." It is strange, I found myself calling him Ippo-kun more as of late. As if the gap in our talents was not the only thing bridged.

Ippo-kun disappears from my vision, only to return with a bottle of water. He brings it to my lips, and I feel his hand slide around the back of my head, gently lifting my head up. I drink…the somewhat cool water running down my throat, down my gullet. It felt nice.

Being the face of Japanese boxing, with Takamaru-san bogged in the Cruiserweight division, faced with the reality that his brute force will not suffice against larger adversaries with better chins.

Validating, vindicating, my father's boxing style. The one to end Ricardo Martinez's reign of terror, Miyata-san. His style, that finally unified the Featherweight championships. "Car-ry my…belts…well. Do not…let-them…slip your. Your. Grasp," I muster out. He understands the meaning.

"Miyata-kun, is, is there anything you want? Food, the bathroom? I can ask for the nurse," Makunouchi speaks in a volume uncomfortably loud for the individual sleeping across from me. I move my right, tapped hand to my plastered jaw and signal for him to shush. I then point toward my father, and Makunouchi stares, a bizarre look of confusion on his face. Makunouchi turns back to me, as if waiting for me to say the obvious. I speak "Let…my…father sleep. Can you-not…see him-sleep?"

He frowns and speaks in a hush voice "My apologies. Is there anything you need?" "Just…rest. And…wa-ter," I reply, and receive a second gulp of cooling water.

The two of us watch the television set as my father sleeps, unperturbed by the volume from the television set. Makunouchi explained to me that there is a mixed martial arts event in the Tokyo Dome, organized by Honor Combat Championship. The main event features a Heavyweight non-title fight between a Judoka from Hiroshima named Yuta Watanabe and an American named Elijah Delacourt, or as Takamura once referred to him in a prior conversation, 'that awesome goofy gaijin at World Japan Pro Wrestling who pretends he is Raoh from the Fist of the North Star cartoons'. One of Takamura's nonsensical pro-wrestling actors, I assume. Well, there is nothing else worth viewing, so might as well watch two idiots throw uncoordinated jabs at each other.

The tale of the tape flashes, Watanabe-san sporting a bowl haircut and a pudgy body…5 feet 11 inches? As a heavyweight? A 6-1 record in this promotion, perhaps he is more than some random Judoka that ate his way to this weight class. Hm, 25 years of age. Elijah Delacourt, is of 29 years of age, five inches taller and of significantly defined body. Delacourt-san's wide, squarish jaw and dirty blonde…haircut stand as his defining characteristics. "I believe Takamura-san called it a…mullet? I cannot understand why someone would make their hair that way," Ippo-kun remarks in amusement.

The familiar theme from that 80s shonen cartoon I used to watch faintly sounds off ' _Yo Wa Shock!_ ' A grating female announcer yells "Fighting! Out of Pearl River, Louisiana, United States of America…Elijah…Dellllllllllllllllacourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt! Kneel before Raoh!" He is led down on a platform from the roof as a titantron flashes an animated version of him in Raoh's horned helmet, cape, and ruby-encrusted shoulder pads.

And…this man is on a black horse.

Dressed in a 100 yen t-shirt he likely purchased in a comic store that sports a picture of Raoh riding a larger version of the actual horse this man is riding, they make their way down to ground level as the commentators revel in amazement and lavish praise on Delacourt-san's 'catch wrestling'. "Even Takamura-san never reached this level of craziness with his entrances," Ippo-kun comments, and I blink in agreement. Oh well, it is distracting me from how badly my body aches.

I suddenly speak "My entr-ance…against…Randy Boy…Jr…Yoko-hama." That was a little ridiculous at the time, looking back. Ippo-kun stares at me with a painful smile…idiot, why did I have to remind Makunouchi of him?

That horse has been taken away before it shits on the runway, and the two men are in the ring, virtually akin to a standard boxing ring. Blue canvas, both men wearing black sneakers, both wearing orange trunks, Delacourt's the darker shade, a few advertisements on man's trunk. Both sporting fingerless MMA gloves, Delacourt's in red, Watanabe's in blue, to match their respective corners. The bulk of Delacourt's corner is of Western descent, all of Watanabe's is East Asian.

The commentary states that the two are former training partners and friends, Delacourt is fighting his 2nd match in the organization after losing his previous due to a 'freak injury'. I noticed Ippo-kun tightening up at the sound of those words. Regardless, the gong sounds and they begin.

Watanabe adopts a very poor replica of Mashiba's hitman style, Delacourt approaches with his arms at waist side, no guard to speak of. Well we are off to a good start. Watanabe throws a rather decent wide left hook to close distance and clinch. Delacourt drives his left knee into Watanabe's stomach, then attempts a short uppercut as Watanabe disengages, striking Watanabe's left elbow.

"Well they punch with better form then the last few guys," Makunouchi says, reclining in his chair. God my body is sore, and my nose itches fierce. The two trade shots that hit only glove, and then Watanabe attempts a right high kick that Delacourt leans into and blocks with his guard. Interesting, despite his hands essentially hovering at waist side, Delacourt has the hand speed to guard in time. Granted, these are heavyweights, but Watanabe is clearly the faster one by far.

More strikes from Watanabe that connect only the guard, and Delacourt presses forward, backing Watanabe to the ropes. Watanabe circles out, and Delacourt…jab, jab, cross, all connect in good form. A left jab feint followed by a right hook that hits Watanabe's gloves, and they clinch at the ropes. Watanabe's right leg sweeps Delacourt, and they both fall to the ground, Watanabe on top of Delacourt.

Delacourt's sneakers press against Watanabe's ribs, and he pushes Watanabe off him and immediately climbs to his feet, his back to Watanabe, the commentary calling Delacourt's maneuver a 'butterfly sweep'.

I admit I don't watch much of this sport, from what I've seen the boxing is mediocre at best, and I know nothing of grappling or Muay Thai.

Watanabe wraps his arms around Delacourt's waists, clinching him from behind, swiping at his legs to try a trip. Delacourt's left arm snakes around the back of Watanabe's head. Delacourt then leans forward, turns his hips to the…right, and impressively flips Watanabe onto the local's back, Delacourt holding Watanabe's head and left arm in a 'Kesa-Gatame', as the commentary refers to it.

Delacourt quickly crawls his right leg toward the direction of Watanabe's head, rests his right hand on his right thigh, and…his right hand's fingers hook with his left hand's fingers in what the commentary team call a 'S-Grip'. With Watanabe-san's left arm pressed against his own neck, Delacourt-san torques Watanabe's head up to toward Delacourt's chest. I see Watanabe-san immediately slapping his right hand on the canvas, and the referee jumps in to separate, Delacourt-san easing the hold before the referee even makes contact.

"I have no idea what just happened," Makunouchi blankly states. I…believe that left arm of Watanabe-san cut off the blood supply to his own brain, but I could be wrong. Regardless, doctors tend to Watanabe-san as Delacourt-san mouths incoherently into the camera.

After a commercial break, the official results are announced. Elijah Delacourt-san wins via submission due to a 'scarf-hold choke' in 4 minutes and 11 seconds of the first round. A Japanese man in thick framed glasses, dressed in a grey suit, enters the ring with a microphone.

I found myself zoning out the interview itself, asking Ippo-kun for a little more water. He lifts my head, brings the bottle to my lips, I hear Delacourt-san speak Japanese in a strange American accent "And this is something to any boxers watching at home, or in a bar, or wherever you may be! I'm talking about real, professional boxers. Come to Finnegan MMA Gym in Harajuku, in Shibuya, Tokyo, one block down from the metro station! We will take on anyone, doesn't matter if you just finished the Class A Rookie tournament or the WBA champion!" "Is he referring to us?" Ippo-kun asks. You mean 'is he referring to Makunouchi Ippo'. "Recruit-ment?" I ask.

Delacourt-san continues "Headgear, three five minute round sparring, MMA gloves, MMA unified rules. I promise we will beat anyone that comes to us, don't matter the weight class. No cost, just send an appointment. We will prove that MMA is the legit sport!" Oh not this nonsensical debate again. Yes yes, 'boxing is dying', 'Ricardo Martinez and Hassan Aziz are the last big draws', 'only the elderly watch boxing', morons. "Why do fighters have to go and prove which sport is better? It's silly, it's like comparing baseball and cricket," Ippo-kun replies. I groan, or attempt to, and speak "It…is…point-less." "Yes," Makunouchi replies, turning the television off.

Leaning against his chair, Makunouchi yawns and says "I will go to the bathroom, be back later. If you need anything, this wall button will get the nurse." I blink rapidly to show I heard him. Seriously, I am fine…argh…for someone with screws in his jaw. Makunouchi smiles and, damnit he almost stepped on Dad's foot. Amazingly father slept through it all, probably a result of him getting older.

Hmph. What's there for me now? Ricardo Martinez beat Alex 'Volg' Zangiev three months ago, and at least one if not all of the sanctioning committees will make a mandatory title match between Ippo and Hassan Aziz. I can fight Sendo-san in my comeback bout, but he is barely in the top 15 rankings now. I already have victories over several of the other top 15 fighters and there is little enthusiasm for rematches. The men at 6th, the American Eric Gomez, and 11th, the Filipino Arturo Dominguez, if I recall, they do not have fights set up…but what's the point? Father, is there a point?

I defeated Ricardo Martinez, the greatest fighter to come from the Featherweight division. My division, the division I never left despite the strain of my weight control. I unified the belts, for the first time in the division since boxing had four major sanctioning bodies. And I did this all with your boxing, the boxing that I watched and studied and memorized and used even when you were drunk and crazed and everyone left me and I was there, all alone.

I don't feel the fire anymore. I…I need to recover. To be strong, to return to Kawahara gym. I…this is not the end of my career but…should I box just for the sake of pay? I am a millionaire multiple times over, my sponsorship deals are still intact unless something changed since my loss. I don't lead an extravagant lifestyle…my penthouse apartment is the only luxury I have. That…and my clothes…I am satisfied with my earnings. I made several million just on my fight with Ippo-kun alone…we both did…to think we came from earning 10,000 yen from our debut matches and spent all of it, well at least myself, by the next weekend on sweets, movie tickets, and ramen from Aoki's restaurant.

I proved my point, my father's point. I reached the pinnacle, and…I am happy with myself.

I finally gave Ippo-kun the fight we both wanted and promised to each other.

I…I need to find what to do with myself.

* * *

10 weeks has passed since my last match with Makunouchi, one week since the wires were removed from my jaw, and I can finally eat normal food. My god, my body feels as if it is still under weight control. I lost 13 pounds of my natural walking weight cause of that injury. My scale reads 135 pounds, ready for my Lightweight debut I guess, and my ribs feel slightly exposed. Perhaps today I can finally enjoy something sturdier. The Italian bistro by Tanaka's Sportswear…I haven't eaten chicken parmesan for a while. Hm, chicken parmesan with fettuccini, soft enough to not cause enough pain, yes why not? Might as well visit Tanaka's to see about replacing my speed bag.

Finishing brushing my teeth, I add one final splash of water to my face and scan it…my eye sockets have gotten slightly swollen over the years, and I can faintly see the many scars peppering my face, mostly around my cheeks. Err, need to shave…maybe tonight. I'm growing a fair amount of prickly fuzz now, didn't I shave last week? I normally don't grow facial hair this fast…well, anyway.

I don't look particularly healthy right now.

Sitting down for breakfast, I made myself and Father breakfast, smoked halibut with a side of toast and a small bowl of natto beans, with orange juice to drink. I see Father staring at his food. "Is everything fine?" I ask. He doesn't respond. Very well, he will eat eventually.

Using a fork and knife, I separate pieces of the halibut, watchful for bones. I ask Father "I think I will visit Tanaka to get a new speed bag. Is there anything the gym itself needs? Hand wraps, bags, anything?" He doesn't response, as I skewer the natto beans with my fork and eat them…oh how I do not miss eating oatmeal and gravy the past couple of months. "I can put it on our company credit card. Father?" Silence, I take it as a no then.

Okay, so my jaw is fine now, good. I can probably resume light sparring in about a week, just to be cautious. It's a little late for my usual road work, I guess a half-day at Kawahara gym for now. I doubt Father would let me do anything outside cardio-exercises. Might as well make myself useful today.

I am already dressed for my run, wearing my black and white striped Adidas tracksuit and bluish green Nike running shoes. Stretching my thighs, I look around toward the dining room, the windows on the right reflecting sunlight off the far away TV screen. Father still has not touched his food, simply staring at it. I frown and say "I'll go do my roadwork for today. I will be in the gym around 2-ish." If I eat anything heavy at noon, I should be fine by 2:30 PM. Okay, "Goodbye," I say.

Just a few more blocks and the long stretch of sidewalk on Tanahashi Street…smell of pastries fill my nose, making me hungry again. No, I don't need my next weight cut to be a comedic disaster. Gorge on junk and I will just rebound in weight, the wrong kind of weight. Healthy carbohydrates and protein, almost no sugars. Cooked eggs and smoked fish, alternate each day. Rice and steamed green vegetables after training. Banana before 7 PM. If I am to take my comeback fight serious, I need to start my diet two weeks ago.

It's already getting hot-ish, damn broken jaw, caused me to miss the entire spring. One last crosswalk, I'm here. I start warming up my legs, getting myself ready and loosened up. Okay, the road to my return starts here. Ready, one, two, three, go!

I break off into a quick jog, almost a sprint, keeping my hands curled as fists, run around a couple walking a dog, letting the burn set in, almost, almost, almost in that sensation of calm. I don't count the steps, just the trees, ten, eleven, twelve. A few more, fourteen, fifteen…stop! Jab, straight, weave left, cross counter! Good form, good form. Ten more trees, resume! Ranked 2nd in the WBO and WBC, Ranked 3rd in the IBF, 4th in the WBA. I can get a rematch with Makunouchi but the result would be no different. I need experience, more experience, more fights, at least two. The weapons are there, I just need to link them, like he linked the Dempsey Roll with the Gazelle Punch. Clever, very clever. Nine, ten!

Jab, cross, quick glance to my right, empty, perfect! Turn left, run backwards, back-peddling, until the tree is equal to the size of my thumb. Good, going good, sweating now, a good sweat. Jab, back-peddling, jab, jab, jab. Glance left, no one nearby, one woman glaring in probable confusion. Strafe left, jab, jab, jab. Envision him, Makunouchi, in the middle of the grass, jab, circle around, the out-boxer's circle. And if he charges you like last time? All those jabs and crosses you fed him on your back foot only caused cosmetic damage. Keep circling, circling! And…forward!

I held off against a doctor stoppage victory…I could have forced the stoppage two rounds before my knockout. And that is how you want to defeat Makunouchi? No, no!

He wouldn't have went for that. I guess we're both idiots, I'm just the one who lost.

Keep going, back to the trees, looking left, the woman staring at me, do not recognize her, I think she realizes what I'm doing and steps away in advance, thanks. Turn left, speed up on down the road, getting tired, no, it's just in my head, slow down and you lose, speed up, full throttle, six trees, seven, it feels good. Very good, a good scented morning, just the right kind of temperature, I enjoy that smell of dew in the morning. Thirteen trees, fourteen, the intersection is coming close, should be one mile down, I think I will do three more miles today, so three more to go, damn this red light. Next half-mile will be at full sprint, green finally, I am off!

Two miles over, light shadowboxing while waiting for the green light, one two, one two, one, sway, jolt counter! Green light, resume! Maybe a final jump to Super Featherweight/Junior Lightweight...or straight into Lightweight even? Would be nice to not bleed myself dry anymore. 9 less pounds I'd need to cut in water weight…135 pound division fighter Ichiro Miyata. A rematch with Mashiba-san is there, 13th ranked in the WBO I think. Maybe a little higher with the other alphabet soup committees, yes, yes. That is a fight I can motivate myself to. My other two losses, Ippo-kun not included, both have moved up to Junior Lightweight. Yes, avenge all my old losses, yes, yes! That is something I can motivate myself for, yes! I'm sure Mashiba-san would not mind the purse either, would make a high profile fight in the Tokyo Dome. Heh, to go from the machine that is Ippo-kun to the monster that is Mashiba-san, don't even tell me the odds. Yes, this will do.

And that is mile #4, oh my legs are burning, a good burn, almost addictive. Now slowed to a light jog to ease my heartrate down and collect those extra meters of roadwork, I feel my undershirt soaked through. Phew, what time is it…10:58 AM. 27 minutes, eh, should be below 25 minutes, need to push for five miles in two days. I should not have slept past 8:30 again, need to adjust my sleeping habits.

Tanaka's is a couple miles away, if I walk there at a resting pace, I should arrive a little before 11:30 AM.

Finding a line stretching for three stores across, I followed the source to Tanaka's store…oh god. I turn to a random Japanese local and ask "Is this the line to the register?" Mercifully no one notices me. The man just shakes his head and says "Nah, go ahead." Okay, maybe Takamura-san is doing another autograph signing.

I step through the front doors and well, well, well, Elijah Delacourt-san at a booth, wearing a black t-shirt with the logo of two hands clutching crossed katana swords, right above the phrase 'Honor Combat Championship' in kanji and kana. I see what is going on now, Tanaka-san got a stock of these fingerless gloves, most of them grey, blackish, or reddish with various brand logos I do not recognize…no wait, I recognize the Hayabusa brand anywhere. Delacourt-san is signing them as they are purchased…11,000 yen for a pair of sparring gloves from Hayabusa? Seems amazingly only a little overpriced, while their high-end boxing gloves were comfortable, they were almost 17,000 yen, and I doubt most of these guys actually need something so high-end. Now, anyway, time to look for a new speed bag, I think I will go with Pro Mex again.

I see some Everlast offerings…eh they have this tendency to go from intact to garbage at a random moment, TITLE…they are durable but…yes, Pro Mex it is. Faster bounces, better to keep my reaction time sharp. 5250 yen, good deal. I pull it off the shelf and approach the register, trying my damn best to not have anyone recognize me, especially Delacourt-san. His open challenge to the boxing world has caused some reactions, with a few idiots from Mashiba-san's gym paying him a visit and being made into bigger idiots. They then called out Delacourt-san for a boxing spar at their gym, only to then realize that Delacourt-san is 6 feet 4 inches and the boxing equivalent of a heavyweight, whom no one in their gym came close. I'd gather from the rest of Fuji-san's voicemails that I haven't bothered to listen to that the pro-wrestler is still at it, while everyone else in the boxing community continues to ignore him.

Tanaka-san, the young man in the thick framed glasses, he turns to me at the counter as I look away from the massive line and even larger pro-wrestler on the right. "Pro Mex again, Miyata-san?" Tanaka-san asks. I shrug my shoulders and say "The usual. And I would really appreciate it if you don't say my name out loud." I nudge in the direction of Delacourt-san to make my point. Tanaka-san raises an eyebrow, and then says "Oh, oh that. Yeah, okay."

I fish out the yen from my wallet and sort through it….5000 in bills, 300 in coins. Tanaka-san opens the register and pulls out a 50 yen silver coin, depositing the rest in the register. He turns to me and awkwardly says "I'm…sorry about what happened. You have my condolences." I place the coin in my wallet and… "Your condolences? Is this about my loss to Ippo-kun. It happened, I accepted it as soon as I woke from the hospital anesthesia. I'll recover and make my comeback…to be honest, even after shedding some muscle, the weight cut was becoming too much. I'm planning a debut at Lightweight in the near future. I'm sure Dad would be relieved once I tell him."

Tanaka-san glares at me like I gone insane. I raise an eyebrow and speak "Well, I will be at the gym. Take care, Tanaka-san." "You too, Miyata-san…oh damn," Tanaka-san replies as suddenly everyone in the store is now staring at me. Oh god…no…please no.

"Hey it's Miyata Ichiro, the guy that KO'd Ricardo Martinez!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I am NOT GOING TO SPEND my EVENING signing moronic AUTOGRAPHS!

Delacourt-san rises from his seat, turns to me…he might be half a foot taller than Takamura-san. He extends a meaty right hand and I shake it. He looks down and speaks in this American-accented Japanese "Hey, Miyata-san, right? I watched a couple of your fights, your last one was brutal. Between you and me, I got you taking Ippo-san in the rematch."

Okay, we have not engaged in a penis contest. Good, those are more Takamura-san's nonsense. I reply "There…will be no rematch. Not at Featherweight at least. I'm moving up in weight…with my body aging it's becoming more difficult to manage the weight control." Delacourt-san smirks and says "Sorry, haven't introduced myself. Name's Elijah Delacourt…" I reply "I know who you are. I watched your fight with Watanabe while recovering in the hospital." Delacourt-san's eyes light up in excitement as he says "Oh, wait, what? You a fan of mixed martial arts?"

I sigh and reply "No, I just watched what was available." I see his right eye twitching. He says "Okay, okay…so, you starting your comeback?" I sigh and shrug my shoulders, saying "Yes, I am." Delacourt-san replies "Well, why don't you visit the Finnegan gym and see how we train, might learn a few things on how the other side of the combat sport's world operates." Oh so he wants free advertising. Former Undisputed Featherweight boxing champion visits MMA/professional wrestling gym. Attend as said boxer shakes his head and silently laughs at everyone's horrible form and inability to punch through a screen door.

I say "Thank you for the offer, but…I need to keep my striking sharp." Oh he is mad now. I continue "And I have precious time that I will lose spending time with non-professionals." Now his forehead is bulging. Satisfied, I turn and walk toward the entrance, as I hear Delacourt-san "Hey wiseass, you can sharpen your striking all you want, won't do you any good when you're flat on your back. Grappling will always beat boxing, and catch wrestling is the best damn grappling there is, asshole. So if you want to put your fists in those words, call us up, the Delacourt invitation is back in action!"

I exit through the door and back outside, declining the penis contest to end all penis contests. I have no time for this garbage, and I really need to get something to eat. Ah, there it is, 'Ristorante Luca Di Firenze', we meet again.

I step into the slightly dimly lit corridor, through the entrance, and notice the familiar dark and lighter reds and browns of the walls, the wine rack on the side. "Hello Miyata-sama," says Sasaki-san, the waitress who's worked here the past couple of years. "Please stop calling me –sama," I repeat for the hundredth time in the past couple of years. "Apologies, Miyata, right this way," she smiles to suggest she forgot again. She collects a menu and nudges me to follow. We pass a few occupied tables seated by men in professional business attire, likely on their lunch breaks, and likely wondering why a tracksuit-wearing extra from the Japanese rendition of the Sopranos just walked into an upscale restaurant.

My usual seat is free, so I happily claim it for myself, in the corner, with my back to the wall. I open the menu and here Sasaki-san speak "We have a special for today, spider crab legs oreganata." "I just want the usual. Chicken parmesan with linguini and salmon caviar. Half a bread basket and no oil. Thank you." "Right away," she replies.

* * *

First time back to Kawahara gym, speed bag cradled in my left hand…the door is locked…what in the world? It is midday, _someone_ should be inside. Takeda-kun, Ishihara-san, Father, this is very strange…I knock. I hear no response, no sound of heavy bags taking abuse, or footsteps slamming against the canvas, this is so very strange. I remember Miyahara-kun passing by me on his roadwork, but that's it. Did Father take everyone to an offsite training camp and not tell me? Whatever…fishing out the keys…there…doors unlocking.

As I thought, the place is deserted…and why are all but one of the heavy bags missing? "Father! Ishihara-san! Anyone!" No answer, so bizarre…

Walking to the bathroom, nothing, no one, I had to turn on the lights for every room I entered. I entered storage and found it almost completely empty, just a few pairs of gloves, boxing cleats, boxing tape, a single first aid kit. So damn strange, it is as if the gym has been abandoned.

I do not even bother setting up the speed bag, and I rather throw a couple hundred or so strikes at the heavy bag to make up for lost time. I wrapped my hands slightly looser than others, I have this superstition that hands wrapped too tightly are liable to break, so I loosen them up just be safe. I already had my fists shattered before, and it was no coincidence, maybe, that my hands were wrapped unusually tight that day.

Alright, a few minutes on the jump rope to properly warm up…ready, set…"Ishihara-san, can you set the clock to…oh damn this." Why did everyone pick this time for their day off? Why is there no one here? Why am I alone here?

Had to set the clock myself…three minutes of jump rope, my heart rate at a good pace, body feels loosened enough, shall we…err, I? Tighten shoulders, proper stance, jab, jab, jab, jab.

The door outside creeks open, after what felt like ten minutes of jab-cross and jab-jab-cross combinations. "Hey," I hear from a familiar voice. Takamura whistles a bit, sounding pissed, maybe he's starting his weight control, or no one asked him for his autograph today. "Yo," he says again, as I continue my routine, 1-2. 1-2. 1-1-2 "Will you fucking stop with that shit you deaf asshole?!" Takamura yells, front kicking the heavy bag nearly off its chain. He then stops the pendulum effect with his massive left fist and says "Like three months and not even a hello? Did you lose your goddamn manners when you lost your belt?! Or were you always this stuck up of a prick and no one cared to notice?!"

"Hello Takamura," I reply, a little amused. "Hello? Hello go-fuck yourself!" he swears, as I step back to avoid being sprayed in his saliva. "Can I help you with something?" I ask, getting a little annoyed with this. "Sure, you can help explain to me why this gym is empty, why everyone here is training with the old man, and…" "Old man…Kamogawa-san? Why is everyone training there? Ishihara-san too? Everyone?!" I ask, and I am very confused and a little angry about this. I need to speak with Father about this.

"Yes everyone! Cause they are not going to wait three months to know if the gym is going to be still around or not! Or maybe you can tell me why cockroaches were swarming your loft when I first visited two months ago and I had to send Aoki to clean the place after you left, and so help me if I had to pay for your rent too!" What, what the hell is he…? "Cockroaches what on earth are you…?" I mutter as Takamura interrupts "That's what I want to know, idiot! What earth are you living on?! Look, I understand grief but turtling up and crying yourself to sleep is pathetic, and this shit you are doing? It makes that look like winning gold at the Olympics!"

"I do not understand what you are talking about!" I yell, at my edge, I don't care if he is several weight classes above me and I just had my wires pulled out, I will fight him here if he prods me like this! "What I am talking about?! I'm talking about your father Miyata-san, and how you need to stop this horseshit psychosis and accept that he is gone!" "Shut the hell up!" I yell, my blood boiling "He's not gone, I saw him this morning!" "You are going to be seeing the walls of an insane asylum next morning if so help me!" Takamura yells back.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" "We've been shutting up for way too long, asshole! And I am tired of us pretending and going along with this play acting hoping that by some miracle you wake yourself up from this and don't do something stupid!" "I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I throw a left hook and, damn this giant bear, he grabs my left arm, sweeps my legs, and argh! Pinned to the floor!

"You didn't even attend the funeral you stupid little shit! The old geezer had to make the eulogy himself!" He just…he just grabbed my chin and, he's threatening me with a punch, not going through with it, just threatening, he'd go through with it if he meant it, the asshole spewing this bullshit. "FOR THE LAST TIME! HE IS NOT DEAD, GET OFF ME! HE IS NOT…HE IS…HE…" "Getting to your head now? FINALLY!" Takamura yells, climbing off from…he is not dead, I'm not alone, he promised he won't leave again, he was gone before but I kept watching his tapes and kept training from memory and he came back and he…would…not…

"Get up, you're a former world champion. Get the hell up," Takamura coldly speaks and I can barely hear because I can't stop crying. "Got shit in your ears? I said get up before you embarrass this nation," he adds, which only pours fuel to the fire given that he has successfully done so for several years straight. "He came back! He came back! After everyone left, he came back! He is not gone you bastard! He is…" "Really Miyata? You gonna continue with this when you already admit it's bullshit?! Stop pissing me off and get up!"

"I'm up. I'm up…" I saw, wiping my tears away, my body still shaking and my throat dry. "Fucking bullshit, I have world domination on my mind and I have to slap some sense to you, you! Fucking genius, my ass, Aoki stepped in shit that is smarter than this!" "I said I'm up!" I yell, still crying, though trying to conceal it.

I haven't cried in this gym in so many years…it almost feels like I have goosebumps from this…

"I think you are full of shit but I got no patience for this anyway…I brought someone with me that can talk you ear off instead, you're his problem now. I got my roadwork to do…hell I was supposed to buy my movies today but when your kouhai told me you're back amongst the living, and now I got half an hour to close. I don't get there in time and I'm returning and using you as a brick through the window!" Takamura finishes, turning around and heading for the exit.

"Takamura…" I say, sounding weak and tired. "Yeah?" he asks, barely turning his head around to listen. "Thanks," I say. I…I needed that…living like that…it was not healthy. Not for anyone. "Whatever, see you, or not, don't really care for small fry," he says, heading toward the doorway. He looks at what I assume is his watch and yells "Shit, I gotta run!" And so he is off.

And stepping through the doorway, to no surprise, Ippo-kun, dressed in a white sweatshirt and blue and white striped track pants. "Hello," he says. Not the usual way he used to greet me, though I cannot say I am complaining.

I wonder who entered that fight in worse mental shape, and who left it worse. "Do you want to talk here…or should we walk toward home. Well, my home." "It is your choice, Miyata-kun." "Home it is…I cannot stay here…I enjoy the silence but this is…everyone is at Kamogawa's?" Ippo nods his head left and right and says "Mostly, a few prospects left to other gyms, and your manager, Kamachi-san, has been looking for work, since we already have Yagi-san. We took whatever supplies we could use…and tried to rotate people in shifts to prevent overcrowding, coach said we will reimburse you for any supplies..."

"Please do not, and thank you. I…I have to decide what to do with this…with Kawahara gym. Title passed to me…how long was this place empty?"

"Since two weeks after Miyata-san…" I give him a look that suggests he doesn't have to finish.

"Who has been paying Ishihara-san's and Nakajima-san's salaries? Kamogawa-san?" Ippo-kun nods solemnly.

"I will pay him back tomorrow, just ask Kamogawa-san to send me an estimate," I add. Ippo-kun just frowns to suggest that we both know what his response will be anyway.

We stand in silence...a minute passes when Ippo-kun speaks "I will wait for you to get ready." Okay.

Locking the door to Kawahara gym, last time maybe…I don't know. "Okay, let's go. Did you walk here?" "Yeah, well, more so ran after Takamura-san." I see.

"So…Miyata-kun, I'm sorry if this is a bad question to ask, but…how are you?"

"I should be asking you the same thing," I reply back, remembering the fight that earned Ippo his shot at my title. 'The Metro Manilla Massacre' they termed it. 'Murphy's Law' is what I would describe it, that and a referee's performance that veered between corrupt and useless.

"I rather talk about it in private…I don't feel comfortable talking about it outside, in the open like this."

"Same as well," I reply. I think I understand why Takamura had Ippo come along.

It's been a couple of streets walked in silence, perhaps time to speak about something else…like boxing. "So, any word on who will be your first defense? Zangiev is ranked 3rd last I saw, just below me. And Hassan Aziz and Ricardo Martinez at 4th and 5th." Ippo sighs and says "I'm not sure. Volg's win over Martinez is more recent then his loss to Hassan. Martinez is fighting 8th or 9th ranked Tejada as his rebound fight, losing two in a row has ruined his credibility for a title shot…and coach still has doubts on me against Martinez. That we do not match-up well. I want to rematch Volg-san but Yagi-san wants the Hassan fight, for the better fight purse." Ippo Makunouchi versus Aziz Hassan, hmm. I speak "Hassan is a speedy counter puncher with a powerful right straight…I'd say that it might be a bad match-up for you but recent history proves otherwise…Dempsey roll to an uppercut…Kamogawa-san is a madman."

Ippo smiles for possibly the first time in this conversation. Us crossing a light, he replies "Whoever coach and Yagi-san decide on, I will fight. I will probably fight Volg afterwards anyway, regardless. I…I want to fight Volg-san, but at the same time, I am scared of the idea…I think you understand."

"I think I do, and…thank you for not holding back. It would have been a hollow victory for me, I know when you hold back, it's pretty obvious." And now we are back to the subjects we are trying to avoid. I quickly say "So…you haven't asked me what my plans are." "Yes, sorry. Have anyone in mind? Martinez really wants that rematch," Ippo replies, tight jawed in response. Yes, Martinez…I heard stories how he raves for my head in training, blames me for his loss to Volg-san after our match.

"If Ricardo Martinez wants a rematch, he can find me in the Lightweight division. I am done with Featherweight," I reply, and I can sense a huge relief slide off Ippo's shoulders. I continue "If I keep cutting the amount of weight needed to make Featherweight and remain competitive, I will be pushed to retirement in a few years, and I have accomplished everything in that division anyway." "Straight to Lightweight? No Jr. Lightweight?" Ippo asks, turning in attention as we walk past a large group of Western tourists. I nod and say "Moving up just a few pounds will barely make my weight cut more manageable as it is, and…there is a loss to avenge there."

"You're talking about…Mashiba-san?" "Who else? He's world ranked. He defeats me and he defeats the man who ended Ricardo Martinez's reign of terror. I defeat him and I avenge that one ugly loss that blotches my record. After that…I don't know. I'm not thinking that far ahead for once."

We enter the apartment…the food I cooked for father that I left on the table…it's clearly gone. What the hell have I been doing to myself? "Truth be told, the cockroaches are better than having to show my face to Aoki and rest, knowing that I went mad. And why was Aoki chosen for this?" I ask, locking the door behind us. "Aoki-san ate fried chicken in the lockers and left grease all over Takamura-san's gym bag," Ippo-kun replies, and I find that unsurprising. There is a significant amount of stupid over at Kamogawa's, why not use me as some prank?

"So, I'm just some ending to a prank with them after all?" I ask, but that is clear horseshit, "I'm sorry, I'm…not thinking straight." "It's okay," he replies, sitting down on my couch. He immediately turns to me and asks "It is fine for me to sit, right?" "What do you think? Of course, don't ask." I step into the kitchen and ask "Is there anything you wish to drink?" "I will have a beer, thanks," Ippo asks. Ha, how little he knows me. "I don't drink alcohol. Would iced black tea suffice?" I reply. "Sure, thank you."

"So…since I am the host, I guess I should start first," I say, cradling the plastic bottle of iced black tea. I take a sip, recline in the cushioned chair across from the sofa that Ippo is sitting on, and begin "I deluded myself into thinking father had a heart attack and recovered, on that day. The day of the final training session, two weeks before the fight. I entered the Kawahara gym a few minutes before he collapsed, he was watching your Manabu spar with Takeda-kun from what I was told, calling for Takeda-kun to circle right and aim for the body. 'Circle right and aim for the body. Circle right and aim…' and at the point of the word aim, he just collapsed. I found everyone surrounding him, Ishihara-san attempting CPR while Manabu and Kamachi-san ran to call an ambulance. He was still alive, clutching his chest for a while…and then he stopped moving." I sigh and drink deeply, forcing myself to accept all of this.

"I rode in the ambulance with Ishihara-san, just in case they needed blood for some reason or another. He…he made it to the emergency room alive…but only for a few minutes. I…I remember glaring blankly at the sterile gray floor that this was some perverse nightmare, the kind that happen before a stressful and cumulative moment, but…and I accepted that lie. And…and I started pretending that my father was there the next day at Kawahara gym, watching me hit the mitts with what I'm sure was a horribly emotional and terrified Ishihara-san. And…they almost made me cancel the fight…and the way I reacted…it was…it was not the way I normally am. It was…Ishihara-san said that it was a good thing that Japan has gun control, and that there was not a gun in his hand that day."

One more gulp of tea, and I allow myself to proceed "Perhaps somewhere in my state, I realized that this was the last chance for our unfinished business, and my promise, to be fulfilled. It…it took so long to reach that point, in a way, it was the driving force of my career, at least after…defeating Randy Boy Jr." His face frowns in a way that suggests it will soon shatter if I say that name one more time. Wait your turn, Ippo-kun, I'm not done yet.

"I…I saw my father where Ishihara-san was, spoke to him as if Ishihara-san was father…there was grounds to commit me to an asylum then and there, they did their best to disguise it and keep me secluded less for their gain and more out of fear of how I would react if the fight was cancelled." Ippo interrupts and says "Miyata-san was buried four days before our fight, our coach, Ishihara-san, a few Kawahara gym members, Kimura-san, and Takamura-san spoke, Takamura-san spoke for you. It…it was Ishihara-san who insisted we keep up with this pretending…he was scared about how you would react. Though, and I'm sorry to say this, I think Kamachi-san was just looking to get his fee for the fight and move on."

Hmph, whatever, more power to Kamachi. I sigh and say "After our fight, waking up in the hospital bed after surgery, I just continued it…thinking I could make this go on forever, believing it because, and I feel really pathetic saying this right now, I just did not want to accept the idea of me being alone in this world. I…my mother left many years ago, my father gone, I do not really have many close acquaintances, no extended family. It was the shock that I lost basically everyone, and became stuck in a nice apartment with nothing in it. That I will just grow like one of those pensioners playing chess at the park until I die on a public bench and end up a side column on a newspaper 'Former Boxing Champ Dead'. I…"

Ippo-kun interrupts and says "Miyata-kun, I asked the coach about this, hypothetically. It's…you are welcome back to Kamogawa gym, if that's what you want. If you want to continue with Kawahara gym, it's there, you are the legal owner of it. If you want back, it's fine. Whatever happened before is in the past." Ippo-kun gives that stupid goofy smile of his and I nod in acknowledgement. I say "We'll see about that…but thank you."

It…it feels nice to have that off my chest. I'm still alone and with no idea where to go next, just a faint few ideas, but…at least I can…I can try to move past this. I…I have to visit Father sometime…sometime. I don't know, I will figure it out.

I take one more gulp of ice tea, stand up, and speak "So, Makunouchi, it's your turn." Ippo-kun nods and says "Yes…I guess it is."

November 4th, 2000. Mall of Asia Arena in Manila, Philippines, 'Massacre at the Mall'. Main event was a Featherweight bout between 4th ranked Randy Boy Jr. and 5th ranked Makunouchi Ippo. The referee was a man named Oscar Villegas, Filipino national. Randy Boy Jr. was reported to have had a horrible weight cut that required a dangerous Epsom salt bath and him drawing blood. 30-35 pounds some sources said, at least 25 pounds.

I was 9 years old when Ray Mancini vs. Duk-Koo Kim happened. WBA Lightweight title fight. First time I ever saw someone die, let alone as a result of a boxing match. Kim-san was left brain dead. His mother committed suicide three months later. The referee committed suicide a few months afterwards.

Randy Boy Sr. left my father in a coma roughly a month after Duk-Koo Kim was taken off life support. Waiting for him to wake up from the hospital bed…and then the news that Randy Boy Sr. succumbed to his injuries in his following fight.

Randy Boy Jr. and our fight was…it was close to that. There were times in our bout that I felt myself slipping away…I am not afraid to die. I understand the risks the sport pose, I'm not an idiot. I accepted that possibility well before I started. I accepted that the day that Korean boxer was left brain dead in Las Vegas.

The referee separated Ippo and Randy Boy Jr. to signal the end of the 8th round. Randy Boy Jr. was knocked down 5 times, twice in round five. Randy Boy Jr. saw his corner, walked toward it, and collapsed. It took half a minute for the referee to call the fight. It took an hour for an ambulance to leave the stadium.

He died of a cerebral hemorrhage the next day, in the nearby hospital.

I don't think Ippo-kun ever accepted that reality, at least not without lying to himself that it cannot possibly happen to him.

That fight was bad, very very bad. Anyone with common sense would have stopped it after the third knockdown but no, the referee thought it was perfectly fine to let Randy Boy Jr. eat a barrage of hooks against the corner because he was somehow still standing. The man was shaking at the weigh-ins, what the hell did that ref expect?

Ippo-kun speaks "First time I actually thought I…that happened…it was my fight with Take Keiichi. The journeyman from Kyushu. Each fight up until my fight with Woli, Sisphar and Gedo, same fear that…that they won't wake up. Yet every time, they woke up, and it was fine, at least, everything seemed fine." I sigh and speak "Ippo-kun, you probably heard this from nearly everybody in your gym, but that was the very definition of an accident."

Ippo grimaces, drinks from his tea, and replies "Accidents do not happen when caused by someone beating the other to death." "They do when it is boxing. In fact, that is probably the one place where beating someone to death is an accident. Tell me, did you make him cut 30 pounds of water weight via an Epsom salt bath and him drawing blood? Did you select that referee for the fight?" "No, and no. I just threw the punches that killed him," he replies.

"It is bad genetics, Ippo-kun. What happened to his father happened to his son…" I really should not have went there. Ippo's face appears ready to shatter…he speaks "I don't think I ever told you what happened to my father." "No, you didn't," I reply, nodding to show I'm paying attention.

"He drowned at sea saving his best friend in a storm, on his fishing boat. He is remembered as a hero, someone who saved lives, someone who is strong, like Sendo's father." Hmph. He continues "What am I going to be remembered for? Being one of the dozens that caused an 'accident' in this sport?" "Is that why you care?" I ask. To be quite honest, Ippo has changed significantly in the past few years, since his loss to Alfredo Gonzales. He became somewhat more concerned with his legacy, with what people will remember him for…not in a conceited way like some boxers, but more so about what kind of positive impact he would leave behind. Meanwhile, in the ring, he has grown more cerebral, slightly more cautious, and in a way, more dangerous.

And to add to it, he finally stopped acting like an obsessed fan around me, which made speaking to him a lot more bearable, and less like this, I don't know, faux praise bordering on him mocking me. It's stupid to even think Ippo would do that, but, maybe there were other bullshits I tried to make into facts, and this was another one of them. Hmph.

Ippo just stares at me in what I gather to be stunned silence. He sets his drink on the coffee table and buries his face in his arms. I sigh and say "I cannot convince you that Randy Boy Jr.'s death is an accident with no fault to you. But it is the truth, it is what any sensible person would say. Anyone that says otherwise is either an idiot, a liar or worse."

"Thanks," Ippo replies, and I'm unsure if he is taking what I say to heart or just pretending to so to end this conversation. He reaches for the TV remote on the table and asks "Is this fine?" "Stop asking," I reply. This is my apartment, not a prison.

He turns on the TV and it shows Fist of the North Star, the Souther saga, Kenshiro's and Souther's first confrontation. Before Kenshiro learned that Souther's pressure points are reversed. "You used to watch Fist of the North Star too?" Ippo asks. I nod and says "Yes, amongst a few other cartoons. I had a childhood…somewhat."

I sit down next to Ippo and yawn…so this is where this day has ended…me accepting reality by watching an old shonen cartoon. Hmph.

"I saw Elijah Delacourt-san at Tanaka's equipment shop, doing an autograph signing. Lined stretched for a distance," I mutter. "You waited in line for his autograph?" "Of course not! I was trying to buy a speed bag, when a fan and Delacourt-san noticed me and…" "Tried to goad you into that challenge?"

I nod and say "Yes, that. I spoke a few parting remarks and left. I heard about those idiots from Mashiba's gym. It's pointless, Delacourt's people would be obliterated in professional boxing, we would be lost in their sport. Why even bother?" "That was what Kimura-san and I were telling Aoki-san, before Takamura-san and coach had to keep him from doing something stupid…again." "Seems like a fairly common situation at your gym," I reply. I think I smiled a little.

" _It can't be…I'm sure I struck his pressure point,"_ Kenshiro speaks on the TV. Ippo mutters "That was a long count." Heh…heheh. We both chuckle a little, as Kenshiro ponders why his pressure point assault was ineffective against Souther, after Souther counted down 'his 3 seconds to live.'

" _Hahaha, the Fist of the North Star has no effect on my body. I was chosen to be the Emperor since birth. No one can defeat me,"_ Souther announces to the sound effect of passing wind.

Some pausing, and suddenly Kenshiro attempt one more assault on Souther, whom absorbs and shouts _"It's useless!"_

More useless effort from Kenshiro, and Souther backs off a step and shouts _"The speed and accuracy of your fighting style is amazing! You really are the true inheritor of the Fist of the North Star."_ I see Ippo giving a glance, ha, and just like Kenshiro, my style proved ultimately weak to yours…is there even a point in returning? Just one revenge match against Mashiba? To correct a dirty loss? That is your entire motivation for…everything? Something that petty?!

" _You may have a better fighting style…but you have lost to my royal bloodline!"_

A counter from Souther and Kenshiro is left a blood-scarred mess _"no way…"_ he mutters, before collapsing face first. Souther initiates his 'villainous laughter'…you know, Delacourt-san looks much closer to Souther then Raoh, now that I think of it. Very much closer…he could easily play him with just a haircut and cheap plastic armor.

" _Grappling will always beat boxing, and catch wrestling is the best damn grappling there is, asshole. So if you want to put your fists in those words, call us up, the Delacourt invitation is back in action!"_

"Ippo-kun, I will meet with you and Kamogawa-san at around 6-7 PM, maybe later depending on what happens next," I announce, climbing from my couch, and walking up to my telephone, the scrap of paper that Delacourt-san snuck into my tracksuit pocket now on the table next to the receiver. "Miyata-kun, who are you calling?"

I finish dialing, a bemused smirk on my face, and I turn to Ippo and say "If I am going to return to Kamogawa-gym, I might as well start acting like an idiot too."


End file.
